Dang, we had one helluva fine small dinner last night. We had two physicists--one retired from UCSD and one high up in the technology circles of Qualcomm, and a third physicist, too, married to the latter, who does molecular modeling in software. We had a choreographer and an artist, and a 6 year old angel, and we atre most well and tippled the night away. Ibuprofen is my friend.

In less than a month I will be flying out East to visit Dani, and Janie, and Chance, and Micca, and Bobex, and Gene and Sandra, and gosh, I dunno WHO-all. I swan, seems like the best pickings are in that mid-Atlantic escutcheon. Anyway, hat's where I'll be.

Guess what I got to do today? All right, I'll tyell you! I got to take a power saw and slice up an ancient (1969) old guitar case that came with my D-35. Reason being that tyhe new, bullet-proof Hiscox case that was kindly provided with my Nick Apollino Apollo angel also fits my Martin perfectly. It's tough as nails, so I will just use it for either guitar. This brightens up the music room by removing one tattered old road-worn case. Yay.

Two weeks, Mom. Two weeks until I no longer have an excuse for not making up my mind what to do with myself. Yayyy!

You DO like to live dangerously, good Bookster. Not being a guitar playing saint like yours truly, see, you may not appreciate the sanctity of the groundd on which you presume to tread. To threaten a man's Martin like that just is not done. It's like questioning the virginity of one's mother. You just don't.

I shall accept/interpret, as the case may be, that, Amos, as, if not an accolade in my own mind, an approval of my attempt at the ultimate act of spoken comedy... one word placed in space and time in perfection.

Tsk, tsk. Calling attention to yourself again. Mom taught you better. You should have quietly gone to her and in a civil tone (using the magic words) excused yourself for interrupting and quietly asked her your question.

Is this what "getting short" does to your manners? If so, Mom still have that wooden spoon and isn't afraid to use it.

Poor Lucy's father died one night From a stroke at forty-three; WIth complications caused by drink And perhaps an S.T.D. Her mother, she could not recall. She went to Heaven, see, When Daddy worked at a banking job, And Lucy was but three.

And Daddy could not handle it. The loss destroyed his heart. The life he'd built had suddenly lost Its one most precious part. And so he drank, and drank again And lost a job or three. And Lucy wondered at his grave, "What will become of me?"

A lovely lass of seventeen And full of love and hope, She quickly spent her savings bank And found she could not cope. She'd used a small inheritance To pay her Daddy's bills. And now she starved, no roof or food, Beset with woes and ills.

She would not turn to the dirty streets, She had her pride, at least, And many's the offer she turned down From a monied, hungry beast. She held her morels dear and close, While in this living hell. And finally found her pathway out: She became a chanterelle.

And now she tours in a velvet car, And sings before the Crown, And many a suitor, rich and kind, She regretfully turns down. Oh, there's many a song-bird on the wing, From the Liffey to the Don, But of them all, no man denies, Our Lucy's champignon.

"O 'Melia, my dear, this does everything crown! Who could have supposed I should meet you in Town? And whence such fair garments, such prosperi-ty?"-- "O didn't you know I'd been ruined?" said she.

"You left us in tatters, without shoes or socks, Tired of digging potatoes, and spudding up docks; And now you've gay bracelets and bright feathers three!"-- "Yes: that's how we dress when we're ruined," said she.

"At home in the barton you said 'thee' and 'thou,' And 'thik oon,' and 'theäs oon,' and 't'other'; but now Your talking quite fits 'ee for high compa-ny!"-- "Some polish is gained with one's ruin," said she.

"Your hands were like paws then, your face blue and bleak But now I'm bewitched by your delicate cheek, And your little gloves fit as on any la-dy!"-- "We never do work when we're ruined," said she.

"You used to call home-life a hag-ridden dream, And you'd sigh, and you'd sock; but at present you seem To know not of megrims or melancho-ly!"-- "True. One's pretty lively when ruined," said she.

"I wish I had feathers, a fine sweeping gown, And a delicate face, and could strut about Town!"-- "My dear--a raw country girl, such as you be, Cannot quite expect that. You ain't ruined," said she.

Our Mom will always see us thorugh The best, and worst, of times, With Hawkster's decadent phantom crew Born of a fevered mind, And Rapparee, to chime us home With scrofulitic rhymes. How blessed we are, we sturdy few Such perfect bliss to find!

We are here in the midst of great effort, an effort which may cause strife and struggle, but whose reward shall be grand and historic. I am speaking of course of the grand march we are making for the Forty Six of KAY!!! I remind you, SIbs of Mom, that what we seek is no passing trifle to be soon forgotten. No! It is epoch-making!! Never in the history of Max Spiegel and Joe Offer has there been ANY thread of such magnitude! Such undying courage and perseverance!! Ad not to be gulled into somnambulistic complaisance by mere quantity, we have strived for PURE GOLD beyond the standards of ordinary threads, a richness of device, and intricacy of wit, a depth of twinkling insight UNHEARD OF in the ranks of lesser threads.

In the mighty folds of her verdant, blossoming vales and hills our Mom enfolds more dreams, hopes and aspirations, more glittering drama, more grim melodramatic confrontation, more ribaldry, more keen-eyed acuity, more dry drollery, and more untrammeled hilarity than all the works of SHakespeare, Chaucer, and Katzanzakis COMBINED!! There has never been, nor ever shall be, a thread to rival Her!!

Then, brothers and sisters, gather here, and let us renew our intentions, our firm promises to the future, to the BS of tomorrow, and to the towering, iconic accomplishment of our many yesterdays, which comprise our precious, respected, esteemed and beloved Mom. ANd let us forge on, link by link, step by sweat, post by post, until the glorious brightness of that unimaginable beauteous event pierces the veil of our mortal souls and elevates every Being among us to new heights and pride of accomplishment: the Next of Kay!

Thank you for your time.

I am MOAB's favorite son and First Vowel, and I approved this message.

I've already served and what has it gotten me? Association with people who drool in their beer, whose pursuit of knowledge and enlightenment does not extend beyond the next joint, who are, in fact, EXACTLY like the people I not only served with, but went to grade school, high school, college and graduate schools with.

I can't seem to create more than what I have already created. Well, as we used to say in the Army, "Phooey!"

I don't know about Mountain Men, but Mountain MOM decided to tackle the Arctic last night and defrost her upright freezer. You should have seen all of the stuff she chipped out of the ice! Where ever did she find that baby mammoth carcass? There were also lots of "herbs" in bags and some bags of small round seeds. Tossed 'em out in the yard behind the compost to see what grows.

I am sure--since you are too strait-laced to be an Epicurean--that you got it from Dr Doddridge.

"'Live, while you live,' the epicure would say. 'And seize the pleasures of the present day.' 'Live, while you live,' the sacred preacher cries, 'And give to God each moment as it flies.' Lord, in my views let each united be; I live in pleasure, when I live to thee."

Now i the rare early hours of a three-day weekend, I face a giant expanse of unfilled time. Later we will drive up to Encinitas and wander among the galleries. Tomorrow I may dust off the kayak. No constraints. Monday, as well, is Free.

This means I can Catch Up. That ewill be very mice indeed.

Good morning, Sainted Mom. Here is a platter of BS Biscuits with honey fresh from the BS bees, and a glass of the finest Liqueur de BS for your breakfast pleasure.

They should have come out wiht me this morning. Just before sunrise, I sat in the edge of a frisky four-foot high surf, waiting patiently for the moment, sliding in the shallows as the breakers flailed and faded around me, always being replaced by new ones. Finally, I had the time right, and I pushed into the face of the next wave, slicing it open and slapping down in the valley behind it. Two or three ugly walls of saltwater tried to slap me around on the way out past the surfline and I got soaked, but they were too late; I was out past the breaking range, into the swells. THen I was out in the morning sun listening to the cries of sea lions, loons, pelicans, and scores of hungry cormorants. They flocked and landed all around me, taking off again across my bows wit the thrupping sound of a bent radiator fan, sawing and swerving as they scanned the nearby waters in a feeding frenzy caused by a large school of alewives or some other small fish. Te wide bosom of the Pacific was calming, brilliant deep blue under a bright sky littered with small puffs of cloud: a perfect kayaker's day.

If only such days could stay as perfect! Coming in a timed the onsets carefully, rode the back of one going in and let it slide under me and break ahead; just as I hit the throttle, a cross breaker came by and slapped my sideways, broaching and rolling me in a blind chaos of sand and water. I almost lost my hat!! It is a normal risk of the business, but I was pissed. For one thing, the seals on the kayaks hatches had apparently dried out from long non-use, and rolling it under a breaker in three feet of water was enough to ship seventy pounds of water. So hauling it up the beach was much more of a trial than it should have been. To top it all off, after I had wearily gotten it up the beach and gone for the car I discovered the usually sound passager on the boatloading area of the beach was now a deep drift of very soft sand, and my poor front-wheel drive can stalled out, buried up to its front hubs in white sand. It took an hour of digging and pushing with the help of several kind strangers, and finally one very nice pure-dee SoCal dude in a large truck, to get it back to terra firma. Finally home, it took me several hours just to sort all the gear out, get the sand off everything, and wash the boat up and stow it.

But there were a good thirty minutes of sheer bliss in the middle of it all, which made it worth all that woe.

Happy Sunday Mom. I have FOUR working days left at the Orifice!! How about them apples??

Oh, Rapp, oh Rapp, oh, Rapparee You're as amiss as a miss can be! You quest for glory, fame and thunder By grabbing up a special number! Surely you know, Or have been told, That fame like that IS pale fool's gold! Someday, when judged, You will confess That numbers are not True BS!